


Parallax

by Gray_Days



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Suicidal Ideation, vomit warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Days/pseuds/Gray_Days
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking at something from two different angles, it can be hard to tell if any of it was ever real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallax

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the [kink meme](http://shotguns-lap.dreamwidth.org/681.html?thread=1705#cmt1705).

She's on top of him, knees splayed and hips straddling his, and it's making him crazy. She's making him crazy. The way she tangles her fingers alternately in the sheets on either side of his head and in the skin of his shoulders, digging bruise-hard into the trapezius muscles and dragging down the front of him in the slick of his sweat. She's breathing hard, they're both breathing hard, both sweating in the heat that the open windows looking out on the star-smeared night do little to alleviate. Her blonde hair sticks to her neck and forehead and he wants nothing — well, okay, very little more than to smooth it away, finger-comb the sweat and the tangles out and tuck it behind her ears and bury his face in it and inhale the scent of her shampoo.

She slides herself up and down on his shaft, clenching around him and he groans helplessly. He's barely got the breath to groan but it's involuntary, it's a reflex of his animal hindbrain and he wants so badly to hold her right now. He wraps his arms around her back and puts his teeth around her right nipple and she makes a sound that's halfway between a gasp and a laugh, presses herself against him. He pulls a little and bites again and she makes a funny little sound, almost like a small whimper. He loves that he can make her make that sound that he never hears her make any other time, that it's a sound just for this place, just for this time, when they're having sex and too aroused and together for words to mess things up.

She slips one hand between them and presses down on her clit, biting her bottom lip as she bares her neck in almost unbearable pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and sweat beading in the corners. He fumbles to help and she catches his hand with her other one, pinning it to the bed unselfconsciously and effortlessly. She says, with the undercurrent of a mocking laugh, "Are you kidding me?"

His voice is high-pitched with pathetic breathlessness when he says, "Do you want me to be?"

She takes her hand off her clit and leans forward to kiss him hard, biting his lower lip so he can feel his pulse between her teeth, feel how close she is to breaking the skin and getting his blood into both their mouths. He didn't think he could get any harder than he already was but there it is, if there's one thing she can do better than anything else it's push him beyond what he ever thought he was capable of. He's going to come soon if she doesn't back off, and he doesn't think he's going to be able to stop himself. His breath keeps catching on the exhale, his stomach clenching with her movements on his fucking dick, she's moved the hand that isn't pinning his back down to his balls and _holy what the fuck, woman._

She releases his lip and it feels tender, too sensitive and swollen like he just bit down too hard on it while falling. Her mouth tastes like him and he's half thrilled by it and half, still, unable not to find it sort of odd. She puts it beside his ear and murmurs, "Not really."

She sits up again and takes her hand off his wrist to brace her palm against the sheets again. He comes forward to start rubbing her, to press his thumb down and move it in hard steady circles while she takes her other hand off his balls and grabs his shoulder. It's a relief, lets him take his mind off the building pressure as it subsides just a little while he works on getting her off. She jerks against him, exhaling sharp breathy noises into his ear that she breaks off to say, "Make me come, Leonard."

He thinks, _that's not my name._

He presses down harder, buries his face in the crook of her shoulder and bites and tongues his way down her collarbone until her muscles tighten and clamp around him and she screams with the clenched heat of her orgasm.

It's too much for his tormented dick and he comes right on her heels crying, "Allison, Allison, oh my god, fuck, Allison—"

Wash barely gets his helmet off before his stomach convulses like getting kicked by a mule and he throws up in the sand, horking up his stomach contents again and again until it feels like his throat's been stripped with bleach and he can barely breathe through the wet coughing of him choking on his own vomit. He manages to push himself to the side before collapsing so that he doesn't fall into the puddle and die in the most pitiful and disgusting way imaginable, shivering and still coughing on his side in the sand. There are tears blurring his vision too thickly to see through except for the distorted white glimmers of what he assumes must be the moon, huge overhead as the one he eventually fell asleep to.

He sucks in wheezing breaths, still getting interrupted every few by weak cancer-patient coughs, the kind of coughing that happens when there's not enough air for a real cough so it's just an ineffective little diaphragmatic punch. It's long minutes before the coughing stills and his breathing approaches something like steady, still stuck stuttering on the inhale as he has to consciously expand his chest to take in more air than "basically none". He rolls onto his back, coughs a few more times, then rolls all the way over and pushes himself up. Eventually he makes it to his feet, feeling dizzy and kind of like he wants to die even more than usual. His extraordinarily stupid amount of vomit has mostly soaked into the sand by now. He kicks more sand over it until it's no longer visible and the smell doesn't make his stomach want to start in on round two.

He wipes his eyes, finally, then threads his fingers into his hair and squeezes tight until he can feel the strands threatening to separate at the root. He knows it has to have gone fully blond again by now and knows that if he looked in a mirror, as if there was a mirror anywhere in the desert, that he wouldn't recognize himself. He wonders how much force it would take to rip off the top of his scalp.

He closes his eyes and lets his hands fall.

He opens them again and starts walking, half-sliding down the side of the dune and nearly landing on his hands when he hits the bottom. He tracks around the next one, staying in the valleys between them until he's out of sight of the camp where the Meta and the prisoner are sleeping. He can't bring himself to care that one of them should have been keeping watch. He almost kind of hopes they all get ambushed by alien fanatics and killed except that he had a goal here and, if he thinks about it, he can remind himself that he cares about it and he'll be pretty pissed off at himself if he fucks himself over while he's busy being...not crazy. Whatever he is right now. Something approaching the far end of acceptable deviations from sane.

If he closes his eyes he can feel her fingertips running down his abdomen, hear her voice, _Leonard_ , and he collapses to his knees in the sand with a dry sob and his hands squeezed into fists against either side of his codpiece like he could castrate himself because he will not, _will not_ jerk off in the fucking desert over the memory slash wet dream of a dead woman.

He folds over until his forehead is resting in the sand. He's just so fucking tired, not just from not sleeping but from the whole ten-plus years he's spent trying to keep afloat on an ocean of memory that's forever trying to pull him down, pull him under and keep him there while he tries to remember what it's like to act like a real human in the real world that he's supposed to be functioning in.

_"What the hell was that?" says Tex._

_"What was what?" Wash asks._

_"You_ know _what I'm talking about." She moves closer and Wash tells himself there's no reason he has to step back. He steps back. "That little stunt you pulled on the mission today."_

_"I was just trying to make sure you got out safely."_

_"_ I _got out fine._ You _broke rank and lost the objective." She moves like a panther in the black armor and when she grabs his shoulder and pushes him back he doesn't realize the corridor wall's right behind him until he bumps into it. "I'm number one on the leaderboard, Wash. It's my job to clean up after everyone else and get out intact. What are you? Eighth?"_

_"Ninth," he says quietly._

Wash forces his eyes open, breathing raggedly. Tries to forget that he's hard under the armor, that part of him's forever silicon and circuits and wires and liquid crystal hard as glacial ice.

_She lets go of him. "I won't ask if that's before or after today. Mind your own business and don't worry about me." She turns away._

_His temper flares and he grabs her shoulder. She stills under his hand, a dangerous stillness that's a hair's breadth away from taking his arm and breaking it off of him. "I just didn't want you to get left behind with a bunch of assholes with big guns, okay?" He's pretty tall, and she's only about three inches shorter than him. He remembers noticing that for the first time, very clearly. "We're a team, Tex."_

_She steps away and he lets his hand fall from her shoulder without protest. "Sometimes," she says, looking back at him, "I'm not so sure."_

It's hot over his head, hot on his face and his lips are cracked and skin tight with heat. He cracks open his eyelids and first he notices that it's dark, thinks it's still nighttime maybe a few minutes or hours later and then he notices that it's the shadow of the Meta over his face and it's three hours after sunrise. The sun-cooked sand touching his forehead is blisteringly hot.

The Meta makes one of those sounds he makes, a rattling panther rumble of a breath from the mess remaining of his throat. Means _almost didn't find you._

"I went for a walk," Wash answers groggily. He pushes himself up on his elbow and in a labor as great as making it to another fucking sunset forces himself to his feet.

"I brought your helmet," says Doc, holding it out to show that yes, indeed, he did bring Wash's helmet. "You left that behind, too."

Wash takes it and looks inside. "It's full of sand."

"Yes, Wash," he chides, and Wash instantly hates him even more than he already did, in an exhausted, fuck-the-world sense, for that tone in his voice. "That's what happens when you leave something hollow with an opening in it lying on top of a bunch of sand."

"Don't call me that."

"What? Wash? What should I call you, then? Agent Washington? Or, I dunno, Kidnappy McGee? I mean, to each his own, but..."

"Try calling me nothing." Wash turns his helmet over in his hands and dumps out the sand as well as he can before fastening it back on over his head. "Let's start walking. We've still got a long way to go."


End file.
